


> [S] Shutdown.

by extractedTransposition



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Ending, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Compliant, Kinda, Probably Missed A Few Things, Time Travel Fix-It, What-If, what should have happened
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-15
Updated: 2015-05-26
Packaged: 2018-03-23 03:39:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3753151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/extractedTransposition/pseuds/extractedTransposition
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If one God Tier nearly beat the Unbeatable Boss, why couldn't four?</p><p>Rewind to the middle of A5A2, if you will, and this time try Aggressing rather than Absconding.</p><p>Let's see what happens.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prelude: Black Rose, Green Sun

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally meant to be intended to be uploaded all at once, but since I only started writing in earnest about a month ago (I'd been doing bits and pieces on the idea since late last year) I'm doing the old Hussie trick of posting what I have and frantically finishing what I haven't.
> 
> In case you weren't aware, the subtitle of each Movement is the OST track that accompanies it (the closest I can get to an [S] in a text fic). I tried to integrate it with canon as much as I could,but since the preparations of A6 and beyond were already in place, this will still read as having a rather conspicuous lack of detail on the troll side of things, and quite a bit of a Deus Ex Machina. 
> 
> Oh well.

Your name is...

No, You have no name, save for a few syllables in the Lovecraftian tongue that would shatter the minds of most who attempted to speak it like so much bone china.

The Seer of Light, then - that's who you are - and as much as you hate to admit it, you are more than a little spooked. The castle around you - or rather the abandoned, battered remains thereof - is straight out of a dozen cliche horror flicks; you'd laugh, only you can't help but feel that if you did, something would hear you, would find you. Except _you're_  supposed to be the bogeyman, the stalker, the agent of the Horrorterrors themselves lurking in the darkness.

None of this reassures you in the slightest, unsurprisingly.

 

 

The curtains sweep back, again and again - yet still nothing behind them, no demon to fight, no Jack. Nothing but still, dead air that whispers at you, mocking you, and a gust of air that blows past you almost like the wake of a car passing, and sends you turning, reaching for your needlewands-

-nope, still nothing there, save for a faint feeling of foolishness inside you. You relax a little, trying to tell your flight-or-flight instinct to stow it, and failing miserably. A quick pat through your sylladex - you don't want to look away, not even for a moment - lets you know your wands are still there, which calms your fears about as much as a glass of water could fill a reservoir.

 

More curtains.

 

Still nothing.

 

* * *

 

You are now the Knight of Time, and you are _praying_ it doesn't end like this. Not to him, not  _again_. Not after you got this far,  _again._

But it does. Of course it does.

Bolts of crackling green magic, impossibly sharp blades, even probability itself tipping out of his favour - each of which on their own would be capable of taking down any other boss effortlessly, each of which would have won the game for you, any other time - all of it doing damage, visible damage, before he adapts and shrugs off each stratagem like a peashooter from a tank.

_And to be honest,_ you think,  _he probably lets you hurt him, just to give you all hope, just to taunt y-_

 

Your thought is cut short abruptly by a flash of green - you flashstep aside; but, impossibly fast as you are, you can't escape the ragged wound that suddenly appears in your side. Already you can feel the flesh healing - or rather, un-tearing; rewinding to an undamaged state. You're still on the ground though, for a few moments, and by the time you gather the strength to get up there's no point in doing so; not when he cuts through your friends, your other selves - even the you native to this timeline - like a combine harvester through a field of wheat. 

Again _._  

You just lie there instead, hoping he doesn't go for you first, hoping the blood of the few people you ever cared for will buy you some time; and you hate yourself for it, for every second of it.

_Again._

You lie there and force yourself to close your eyes, to block out the screams and the sickening sound of tearing flesh and bone twisted further than nature designed it to go; force yourself to focus on a rhythm, a pulse, a beat; to think of nothing else; not the blood, all the blood that you'll never wash off, or the way their naive smiles all faded when they told them of your timeline or the way they all thought they'd make it out alive or the pain in their voice when they cried out for each other or for their guardians or at you because you said you'd protect them said that you could fix it all but you betrayed them you betrayed them all you f-

 

 

 

 

 

Ice.

Wind.

Cold.

Something liquid, something wet, something freezing, soaking into your clothes. Just melting snow, this time, not blood - not yet. That comes later.

LOFAF. You know where you are,  _when_ you are, and what you have to do. Yet, as you add a mark to the ever-growing tally and return the notebook to your sylladex, you know perfectly well that knowing all of that didn't help you any of the other times. You know it wouldn't this time, either, not normally. But normally you would go for a plan that wasn't batshit crazy, a plan that you wouldn't risk a dime on the success of, never mind the lives of yourself and your friends.

 

But if the Good Doctor isn't a gambling man... maybe  _you_ should be.


	2. First Movement: At The Price Of Oblivion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very late, and no less awful for the extra time spent.
> 
> Just in case y'all didn't hate me enough already, typing up will be split from here on out on a Mon/Thurs schedule.
> 
> Asian out.

Hours in the future, but not many...

 

 

* * *

 

Another curtain - and you're on the roof. The view _is_ impressive, to be fair, more so than it was during your descent… although John standing there, over the bodies of your dead guardians, spoils it somewhat.No matter. You're not here for the scenery. 

_He's_ there, too, taking a moment to look you both in the eye - or, in your case, the unreadable, glowing white orbs. You smirk, drawing your wands-

-but they're not your wands.

New? Yes.

Clean? Yes.

Powerful? If their crackling green sparks are anything to go by, very much so. 

They're still not yours, though, and something about the fresh, polished, ivory feels… feels _wrong_ , somehow. _Too_ clean, _too_ pure. The feeling, thankfully, doesn't last long, as black veins of darkness spread from your hands, branching, spreading, quickly covering the wands. On the other hand, neither does John - you look up just in time to see him slump the the ground, sliding off the blade that left a clean hole in his torso.

 

_Fuck._

 

* * *

 

 

In an instant, you raise both wands and draw on your dark energies; but this takes time, precious seconds that, against any other opponent, would be irrelevant; seconds that allow him to cross the roof over to you and barely give you time to duck under his first swing. You riposte reflexively, planting both wands in his midsection and letting loose with a concussive spell that throws him back - just a fraction of the distance you expected - for a moment, another moment for you to get to full strength.

You take a breath before throwing bolts of light that could turn liches and ogres to grist with just a glancing blow - they impact against his wings with colourful splashes as he lunges forward, health vial still full. Backpedalling quickly, you switch from individual bolts to a constant beam with the same lack of success, taking a moment to scowl as he leaps over. You curse in tongues; realising a second too late that you haven't cast a protective aurora around your wands, and that blocking or parrying his sword without doing so would only see them cleaved through as effortlessly as a hot knife through butter.

A flash of blinding green, the moment the two weapons make contact, then a jolt - and when you open your eyes, he's standing there, trying to slash at you with a sword that's been thrown half the roof away. You look down at the wands, as surprised as he is, although if that's how powerful they are, you really don't mi-

-and he leaps at you again, jabbing forward with a thrust that sends you reeling backwards out of the way, toppling to the ground before you can steady yourself.

 

You see a flash of black, then of blue - and you're on your back, gazing up at the silhouette of a sword against the Skaian sky. You roll out of the way with the blink of an eye to spare, rising into the air. He looks down in confusion at his sword for a moment - or rather, the lack of a girl impaled on it - before pulling it from the rooftop, by which time you're firing off a beam of swirling colours that, any other time, you would have joked about as belonging to some children's cartoon. To your own surprise, it's his turn to stumble back reeling, his health vial dropping a fraction.

You smirk; and in that moment, he plants one arm on the floor and vanishes in a flash of green. You turn, knowing what he's going to do; but you're not quite fast enough, managing only to get a good look at him before the forest of tentacles emerging from his sides engulfs you.

 

 

 

Darkness.

 

* * *

 

 

Normally darkness would be your ally. Normally it would be to your advantage; normally you could lurk in it, stalk in it, strike from it before vanishing back into it - normally you would be more at home there than you ever could be in the light. Then again, normally you wouldn't have a crushing tightness wrapped around your chest, slowly squeezing the life out of you. 

It takes a herculean effort - no, more - to gasp out some fragments of words, to form a bubble shield a few feet around you. It lasts for less than a second - you don't have the energy to hold it for any longer - but it severs the tentacles holding you, making them drop, lifeless, to the battlefield below-

-and you're free again, flailing, falling to the roof. All thoughts of tactics and strategy are wiped from your oxygen-starved brain, replaced with simple, desperate commands.

**_Breathe._**  
You barely have time to gasp before the landing knocks the wind from you - and you're coughing, choking, wheezing.

**_Get up._**  
You don't know what gives you the strength to roll over, to plant one arm beneath you; adrenaline, maybe, or fear - but it certainly isn't you.

**_See how he likes this._**

Tendrils of darkness leap from your wands, reaching out to crush him in return; he responds by raising one hand and sending the Red Miles spilling, spewing forth; forcing your own spell back in retreat until it feeds back into your wands and throws you across the roof, slamming you into the edge. Vision fading, you get to one knee, gasping, groaning, yelling any and every curse you have the strength for. Of course it's not enough - it barely makes him break stride - but you're willing to accept that if it means a few more moments between now and his sword piercing your chest.  


Something inside you seizes control, pushes everything you have into one last blast; it erupts from your wands like a nuclear explosion focused into a tight beam, catching him, trapping him, forming a smooth, glassy bubble of darkness around him - even as black fragments of your wands crumble to dust in your hands.

You hear somebody screaming, faintly, desperately.  
You think it's probably you.

And then you don't think anything; your mind, your awareness fading to the rooftop, then the bubble - already webbed with cracks - and finally to a much smaller, stiller point inside your skull.

Then nothing.

 

 

* * *

 

 

No.


	3. Second Movement: Even In Death (T'Morra's Belly Mix)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And the moral of the story, kids? Don't be an idiot and promise regular updates during exam season.

No.  
You won't stop saying it. You can't stop saying it, repeating it, mouthing the sound over and over until you drum the single syllable into your brain, into meaninglessness.

No.  
You keep saying it, thinking it, as if the fates or gods or whatever the fuck lay out there gave a damn, as if they would come swooping out of the sky and fix things, as if they could do something - as if you, or anything could.

No.  
But it won't, and he's dead, he's dead and he's not coming back, not coming home at the end of the day and tossing you some aj, not insisting he listen to how your latest mix is going, not leaving his puppets all over the place or strifing with you or filling the fridge with swords or updating his shitty blogs or burying you in a pile of smuppets because he's dead he's fucking dead and he's not coming back you let him die you little shit you let him die you could've gone back could've saved him but you let your bro fucking die let him bleed to death on some cold world you never even set foot on let him die to protect you and your friends you selfish fucking b-

"...Hey, lil man."

-and then you're stood up, you're there, you're ramming your fists into his gut and surprising the both of you with just how hard you hit because its not him, of course its not because he's lying stone cold fucking dead a dozen yards behind you, because it's just a doomed you, because you thought it was bro, because you dared to fucking hope.

He wheezes, drags in a few breaths, and laughs, the moment you let up. "...Yeah, I probably deserved that too." His voice is dry, paper-thin, and colder than the ground beneath your feet. "But we got...got a few things to talk about." 

He gets back to his feet, and you're suddenly aware of how much taller he is, of how much bigger and stronger he is and how he probably could've killed you right there and then if he wanted to; most of all, you're aware of how he's not wearing his - your - shades. A sphere, slowly pulsing a green glow from the strangely familiar symbol in its side, resting in his hands - you notice that too; notice him fiddling with it - he catches the way you're looking at it, and smirks.

"Hm? Yeah, without Admiral Serket to keep us on track we had to come up with our own ball games." The faint smile flickers and dies, even as he speaks. "But you gotta learn to use these, and learn fast - we fucked things up, and you gotta fix them."

He talks. Talks of a future more broken than you can imagine, of those that you... those that you love; there's no other word for it, tortured, killed, or turned into pawns; of comforting them while they bled out. Talks of the same happening, no matter what he does - and talks of why, and how, you fix things. He doesn't talk of the obvious, the question hanging over the pair of you, the elephant in the room, so you ask.

He laughs again, no less mirthlessly, then answers you. "Me? You've got more to worry about than a second-rate you from some crapsack future. And besides - if I told you, you'd have to kill me."

You push the point.  
A moment passes, and he sighs, then shrugs.

"I'm going to kill Jade Harley."

 

* * *

 

You are...  
Well, you're certainly not dead. You breathe, blink, move; eyes no longer white orbs, skin no longer deathly grey, mind no longer enthralled.  
Your name is Rose Lalonde, and you are free.

You look up, just in time to see him burst from his shell, looking for a fight; a glance down at your wands, back to the pure, glowing, Green-Sun-charged ivory they were before you changed them, tells you that you might just be able to give him one, and one worth watching. Free from the Horrorterrors - no longer a servant but a former student - your days of wielding power corrupt are over, but now... now you wield power cosmic.

_Shall we dance?_

And a dance it is - though he still blocks and parries every spell and curse you cast at him, it takes him effort to do so, makes him work, makes him fight.   
A feint, a sidestep, a bolt of blinding white light, and it's his turn to be slammed into the far edge of the roof. You're not normally one for the age-old tradition of firefight banter, but this is no normal fight, and you can feel a witty one-liner coming to your lips-

-only to die there, to give way to coughing, choking, wheezing, as flesh and bone give way to the blade forcing through your chest from behind.  
That's funny. You kinda thought it would hurt more.

And you're falling from his blade, falling to the cold, hard roof, and you want to give him one parting taunt but all your fuzzy, fading mind throws up is an apology. 

You don't even know who to.

 

* * *

 

A roof.  
A girl, a boy, a dog-god. Two of them are dead, the other needs to be.

You're standing by the girl, and then a doomed you is, too, and another, - drawing their swords and running at Jack while you pick her up. You know that'll barely slow him down, but you still nod in silent thanks for the head start, grimacing and blocking out the image of your selves willingly dooming themselves, of how _they're_ better than _you_. You dial the orb, throw it, flashstep through the portal - and the Battlefield gives way to LOLAR, a quest bed.  
Looks like future you got his sums right - better hope he's got the timing, too. Here goes...

You caught glimpses of John's ascencion before, but from up close the light show is spectacular. The moment you put her body to rest, it begins to rise; wounds fade, clothes change, lights flicker and strobe as if the whole world is giving its energy to revive her. And you can't help but smirk, because maybe he was right, maybe you'll make i-

The portal.  
He's here.

Between a god and a girl, fighting one for the other?  
_Time to make him proud, lil man._

 

* * *

 

You lied to him, of course. It didn't get any easier with time.  
None of it did.

Not lying through your teeth to another self, or knowing that self would probably be lying in a pool of his own blood in less than a day's time.

Not looking at him - at you - and remembering countless versions, most of whom thought you would fix things, and who you could do nothing for but cut their pain short in the end.

Certainly not walking up to her, seeing her smile, call your name; hearing the joy, confusion - then fear - in her voice. 

Not looking her in the eye as your blade cuts into her, or feeling blood spill from the wound, or feeling her body go limp or seeing her eyes glaze over, even as you carry her to her bed and lay her to rest, muttering an apology that it was for the greater good.

It's too quiet, too pathetic to hear, much less convince anyone...


End file.
